


6000 Years of Love

by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, M/M, Relationship Fluff, occasional smut, ratings in chapter summaries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 18:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19382617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy/pseuds/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: Various prompt fills from Tumblr. Prompt and rating at the beginning of each chapter. Basically a lot of Ineffable Husbands love... ♥





	1. The Classics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ineffable Husbands fic prompt: Aziraphale finds out Crowley hasn't read any of the classics and goes a bit overboard with the reading list.
> 
> Rating: G

“I know for a fact that you don’t exactly need sleep, my dear Crowley. One could easily read three books in the time since I left you.”

The demon groaned. That was, in fact, the only sign that he was actually in the room. His body was hidden between stacks of books, and while he was sitting in a plush armchair, he didn’t feel very much at home…

“You could. I definitely can’t.”

“Come on, don’t fret. So much is based on the classics that it really is remiss of you to not keep up with them.”

“I do keep up,” Crowley snapped and gestured around him, his hands waving over the topmost books in a grand and desperate gesture. “I met most of these people in person. I can tell you what Dante’s favourite lunch was!”

“That’s not the same…” Aziraphale sighed.

Crowley watched yet another book materialise in the air above him, dropping on top of an already incredibly high stack. He looked to the side table, where the three books he had already finished were lying as proof that he was trying. He was, really. Crowley manifested his wings and jumped up into the air to leap to Aziraphale’s side, who was perusing his catalogue. He wrapped both his arms around the angel and pressed his face in the crook of his neck. Aziraphale always smelled like honey to him.

“Why is this suddenly so important to you?” he whispered against his angel’s skin.

Aziraphale sank into Crowley’s embrace and brought a hand up to his face, drawing a finger along his nose.

“I… I fear it won’t be enough. The way we are.”

Crowley frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve kept separate lives for so long. We both have things we love dearly, but… but I want to share my world with you too! I want to talk about everything with you… all the time… But I’m afraid that this,” he said and gestured towards the bookshelves. “Is all I know.”

“Oh, my precious angel,” Crowley said with a smile. “Just tell me the truth if it’s that important to you.”

“I didn’t want to force you…”

Crowley barked a laugh and turned them towards the chair that wasn’t even visible.

“That doesn’t look excessive to you?”

“Point taken…” Aziraphale mumbled.

“Let’s make a deal, then. I promise to catch up on my reading if you join me for all the films I love. So we can both share each other’s world.”

Aziraphale turned in Crowley’s grasp and beamed up at him, the light of love shining out of his eyes.

“You’re a romantic after all.”

“Only for you, angel. Only for you.”


	2. Interruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are you still taking Good Omens prompts? If you are I'd love to see you write something based on: "do you want me to leave?" xxx
> 
> Rating: E

Aziraphale clutches the back of the armchair so hard he fears he might splinter the wood. His face is flushed, he is gasping, panting. Another thrust and he whimpers, but still the hands stay where Crowley had put them. Aziraphale knows how to be good.

“Lovely…” Crowleg whispers and bites his angel’s neck again.

Aziraphale’s back is a mess. Red lines, bite marks, all easily healed, but that isn’t the point right now. It hurts, yes, but it feels so good it must be sinful. Crowley pinches his nipples again, which are already red and swollen, draws his hips back and snaps them forward to fill his angel once more.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale begs. He doesn’t know what for.

“Sshhh, I know,” the demon hisses.

Finally, finally he reaches down and takes Aziraphale’s neglected cock in his hand, stroking him in time with his own movement. The angel gasps in relief, moans like a harlot. A suggestion of his wings shimmers in the air, quivering worse than Aziraphale himself.

Neither of them notices the displacement in the air as another person appears in the book shop. Gabriel raises an eyebrow and clears his throat.

“Are you finished soon or do you want me to leave?”


	3. Clothes make the Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good Omens prompt: Crowley tries to give Aziraphale a new look because he's insisting the victorian dandy look is still okay seventy years later.
> 
> Rating: G

Aziraphale tapped on the counter top with his finger and a shirt appeared. It was fashioned out of very light cloth, seemed rather wide and had a stitched, ruffled collar. He inspected it for what felt like a minute, then he tutted lightly and tapped the counter top again. The shirt was replaced by another, with coarser cloth and a more simple collar. This time he shook his head and tapped the wood again. Yet another shirt appeared, closer to the first, with a darker collar. Aziraphale let his fingers glide over the cloth and hummed. Finally he nodded and took a step forward. He tapped his finger on the wood next to the shirt and a silken cravat appeared. It was grey and shined silver in the low light. The angel smiled and stroked the fabric thoughtfully.

“Are you still here?” he heard Crowley say from the doorway. “I left you hours ago!”

“Hush, dear… I’m thinking.”

Aziraphale tapped the table again and the cravat changed its colour into a blood red. As his fingers touched the cloth it left a pattern of little golden stitching in its wake. He dragged it back and forth, pattern changing accordingly. Quatrefoil, houndstooth, paisley… hmm, yes. Paisley.

Crowley stepped next to his angel and watched the pattern dance under his fingers. He looked over the assortment of clothes that already lay on the counter of the bookshop, neatly folded.

“Are you done soon?” he asked, touching the suit jacket experimentally.

“Almost. Still missing a set of carved buttons that matches the rest. And cufflinks, of course. I can only match the hat when you’re wearing it. And a pocket watch. And the walking stick…”

Aziraphale’s face lit up with glee. He was even jumping up and down a little. Crowley couldn’t help but smile indulgently where Aziraphale couldn’t see him. When the angel had shyly asked him if he could dress Crowley as a Victorian dandy, he had first refused. There was no way he would ever be so out of style. Still, he had given in pretty quickly.

“I did so love the way you dressed seventy years ago, my dear. I just want… I wish we could match again. If you… oh, Crowley, you wouldn’t even have to go out. Just like on the night at the Gaiety? You remember, don’t you?”

Crowley did remember. How could he ever forget. It was the first night on which Aziraphale had dared to reach for his hand, had held it through the theatre performance, his face glowing with the most becoming blush. How could he refuse his angel’s wish with such a pretty picture in his head?

Aziraphale turned around and held out a hand.

“Shall we start dressing you?” he asked, his face lit up with joy.

Crowley put his hand into Aziraphale’s and gave it a squeeze. He allowed himself a soft smile. 

“We shall.”


	4. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GO Prompt, if you're comfortable with it: demons aren't beings of gentle contact. Crowley's not felt a kind hand in thousands of years, not since he fell. So Aziraphale, a being who treasures earthly delights, first gets intimate it's... confusing. Wonderful. Upsetting. Lots of damn things that he's far too cool to talk about even though Aziraphale encourages him to.
> 
> Rating: G

Aziraphale gently cards his fingers through Crowley’s hair. He doesn’t often like to sleep himself, but he loves watching his demon while he is unconscious, features relaxed and peaceful. They are on the couch in the backroom of the shop, Crowley’s head on his lap, one arm wrapped around his leg. He smiles down at him as he drags a finger over Crowley’s tattoo, his book forgotten for once. Well, if he’s being frank he has quite often forgotten it recently, in favour of spending time in Crowley’s presence, now that he can freely admire him instead of only stealing fond glances.

It pains him that he has never seen Crowley as peaceful while he’s awake. There’s been glimpses of it, just after a kiss or when their eyes meet while they’re wrapped up in each other on the bed, but only ever a fleeting impression. They haven’t been together like this for long—just over two months had gone by since the Apocalypse that wasn’t, and an even shorter time since Aziraphale had finally (finally) blurted out his feelings because he couldn’t hold them in anymore. Almost 6000 years is a long time to hold something in, even for them.

But the simple act of confessing doesn’t actually magically fix everything, as liberating as it was. They had been separate for so long, no matter their familiarity, it would take time to adjust to this new status quo. Luckily they have all the time in the world.

Crowley stirs. He groans. Then he freezes. Aziraphale pulls his hand away. That will also take some time to change. Crowley still isn’t used to it—this closeness. He manages while he’s awake, but in his waking moments he is still wary, instinctively. He’s once grabbed Aziraphale’s arm very painfully and now he takes precautions.

“Only me,” Aziraphale whispers and gingerly places his hand on Crowley’s arm again.

“...ziraphale,” Crowley mumbles sleepily and the angel feels the grip on his leg get tighter. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale asks in a low voice, even though he knows.

“I don’t… I… ugh…” Crowley replies and buries his face in Aziraphale’s thigh.

“Give it time.”

Crowley’s fingers dig into his flesh, almost painful for a moment. He doesn’t move, still facing away. His voice is low and slightly quivering as he speaks.

“I don’t want to give it time… I… I want…”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, just starts to play with Crowley’s hair. The slow motion seems to settle the demon, who relaxes his grip.

“Demons are not meant to love,” he says, finally, a mere whisper.

“Pish-tosh!” Aziraphale tuts. “You love me, don’t you?”

Crowley nods against his leg. He’s still facing away. Aziraphale know how hard it is for him to talk about his feelings. He also knows the depth of love he can see in Crowley’s eyes. 

“That’s settled then,” he states with a finality in his voice that makes Crowley huff a laugh. Well, that’s better, Aziraphale thinks.

Then Crowley does sit up, ruffles his hair once, turns to Aziraphale. His yellow eyes are wide and unsure. Aziraphale is infinitely glad that Crowley has stopped wearing his sunglasses in his presence. To prove his point he puts his hand on Crowley’s cheek, strokes the skin with his thumb. Crowley never fails to press his head in Aziraphale’s hand. Where words fail him, Crowley’s body will always lean towards his angel. This is how Aziraphale knows that everything will be alright.

“I don’t want to take time, but still I need time,” Crowley says then, slowly. “I want to learn how to love you the way you deserve. The… the…” he swallows. “The way you love me.”

Aziraphale’s heart does something complicated that includes simultaneously clenching, racing and jumping out of his chest.

“Oh my dear, my darling, my Crowley. You already do,” he says, now both hands on the demon’s face. “You show me every day. There’s nothing you need to change for me.”

“I know. But I need to change it for myself.”

“Whatever you need, my love. However long you need. I’ll love you all the same.”

Crowley just smiles, and it’s shy and real and full of love for his perfect angel.


	5. True Form

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Crowley has a real hard time recovering post apocalypse (flaming Bentleys and pocket dimensions don’t come without overclocking demonic energy) and it’s left him more noticeably demonic in ways he’d rather Aziraphale didn’t see.
> 
> Rating: T

He had tried to keep it together, he really had. 

It was fine. It went fine. 

All was well. Well, almost all. 

The apocalypse-that-wasn’t had taken a lot out of him. The hellfire on the M25, the last hurrah of his beloved Bentley, standing against the actual devil… and then of course the body switch. (Though, if he’s honest, he had gotten a real kick out of breathing hellfire in Gabriel’s general direction.)

Aziraphale had shyly asked if he wanted to come to the bookshop after the dinner at the Ritz, but as much as Crowley would’ve loved to spend more time with his angel, he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

“I’m sorry, angel. I know you don’t need to sleep, but I’m really tired,” he said, and even as the words left his mouth they already sounded like a pathetic excuse.

“Of course,” Aziraphale responded quickly. 

Maybe a bit too quickly. Crowley’s heart twisted itself as he saw Aziraphale’s sad, resigned smile. Pride be damned! The most important person in his immortal life was turning away when there was no need to! He reached out despite himself, clutching Aziraphale’s hand in his own, where it had been buried in his lap. The angel looked up in surprise, confusion and hope in his face.

“I really just need a night to recuperate. This has all… taken a lot out of me. This is not a rejection. I would be a madmen to turn away from you, perfect being that you are.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gushed, face coloured. “What has gotten into you?”

“I’m not actually sure. I don’t feel all too well. Promise me you’ll wait for me?”

“I promise, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said with a smile, which was tinged with worry.

————————

It had been a week. Aziraphale was pacing in his shop. A week of silence. Crowley had said he needed a night. A single night. Now it had been seven. The angel was mumbling to himself as he went, driving out the last potential customer for the day absent-mindedly. It wasn’t unusual for Crowley to disappear for weeks — in the beginning of their acquaintance they had sometimes not seen each other for centuries — but with everything that had happened, Aziraphale had hoped that would change. He had wanted to make that first step then, on the night after the Ritz. He was sure that Crowley would feel at least something for him… but then he had straight up disappeared!

No. No, this wouldn’t do. Aziraphale shook his head. He marched to the shop door to lock it and turn the sign to closed. Then he drew the blinds and straightened first his jacket, then the bow tie. No, this wouldn’t do at all. With a snap he miracled himself to Crowley’s front door and pressed the doorbell in the middle of the ornate, gilded snake.

There was no answer. Aziraphale harrumphed with emphasis. His worry was now tinged with annoyance, but it quickly dipped into fear. What if Crowley wasn’t here? What if something had happened to him? He rang again, and because silence was the only answer, he took a deep, steadying breath and miracled himself on the other side of the door.

Immediately he felt slightly off and quickly realised why. The air in the flat was hot and humid, reeking of sulfur and ash. Aziraphale’s heart sank. Had hell revised their judgement and come back to make Crowley pay for his involvement in preventing armageddon? He stormed forward, propelled by the force of his wings, deeper into the flat, past Crowley’s desk and the plants (which were suffering in the oppressive atmosphere).

“Crowley?” he shouted. “Crowley, are you here?”

What if he was too late? Why hadn’t he checked up on the demon sooner? What if—

“Aziraphale?” he heard someone ask and only belatedly realised that it was indeed Crowley’s voice, only it was deep and gravelly. “Go away…”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked again, this time in front of the closed bedroom door. It was obvious that the smell emanated from within — there was even smoke curling out of the keyhole.

“Go. Away!” he heard, this time with more emphasis. “You can’t see me like this!”

Aziraphale swallowed. There were, of course, two options: Insist or leave. Though, in reality there was only one: Go over Crowley’s head. If he insisted, Crowley would resist, and leaving wasn’t actually an option at all. So he performed his third miracle of the day and transported himself into the room.

It was dark in here, which was to be expected of a room that was miraculously void of any window. The only light was a tentative, orange glow, which emanated from where Aziraphale judged the bed to be situated. It moved, slowly. He could hear ragged breaths coming out of the same direction.

“What part of go away didn’t you undersssssstand?” Crowley hissed. It sounded aggressive.

“I will not leave you. This is non-negotiable. You’re obviously suffering from something and I shall be damned if I let my best friend suffer alone!” Aziraphale stated with finality, proud to keep the waver out of his voice that threatened to creep in. “If you think I’d just go, you don’t know me as well as you think.”

Crowley huffed a laugh. “Of course you wouldn’t leave. That’s why I didn’t call you. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Everything you do concerns me,” Aziraphale said into the darkness.

“Why?”

“Because… because I love you, you idiot!”

There was a sharp intake of breath, then silence that stretched out between them. Aziraphale didn’t know what to do, so he cautiously inched closer to the glow in front of him, the glow that he instinctively knew was Crowley himself.

“If you love me, you’ll leave me alone right now,” Crowley whispered as Aziraphale’s legs bumped into the bed.

“Why?”

“Angel…” Crowley replied desperately. “You’re right, I’m suffering. I’m suffering from being a demon. I strained this body too much. It can’t contain me properly. It… it needs to rest much longer than I thought. Maybe… maybe I’ll never go back to how I was. If you see me like this you won’t… I couldn’t bear it if you decided to leave me…”

His voice was almost inaudible towards the end, accompanied by a noise that sounded like a sob. Aziraphale’s heart strained against his chest.

“I would never.”

“You say that now, but—”

In that moment Aziraphale conjured up a light above the bed, illuminating the scene. Crowley shrank back and hissed, his yellow eyes glinting menacingly for a moment before disappearing as he buried his face in his hands. He was cowering on the bed, legs drawn up in a ball. On his back his large, black wings were spread through the room, but they were less than full, feathers not fallen out, but burnt, still smoking. The bedding around Crowley was charred. His body still had its recognisable form, but it was dark, covered in scales, cracks between them that glowed from the inside out like a smoldering coal. His hair was long and fiery red, covering most of his shivering body, which was completely naked.

“GO AWAY!” he wailed. “DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THIS!”

Aziraphale sighed. “My dear boy…”

In an instant he was on the bed, his arms wrapped around the demon. The heat burned itself into his clothes and the smell of sulfur was overwhelming, but it didn’t matter. Crowley was suffering. Crowley was hurting. He couldn’t be anywhere else.

“Leave…” Crowley said again, but it was more a sob than a word, a token protest under tears, because as soon as Aziraphale had joined him, his whole body immediately leaned into the angel.

“Never,” the angel replied and kissed Crowley’s shoulder. “I will never leave you.”

Crowley shook his head. “I never meant for any of this to happen. This body. I didn’t mean to fall. I’m not worthy of—”

“Stop this right now. I will hear none of it. If you don’t have anything good to say about yourself, kindly cease talking.”

A hand came to rest on Aziraphale’s chest, digging into the cloth of his waistcoat. The angel allowed himself a small smile and bent down to kiss the demon again, when his eyes fell onto a peculiarity. The small spot he had kissed before wasn’t dark anymore. It showed normal, healthy skin. He swallowed and touched another part of Crowley with his lips, only to see it had happened again.

“Angel?” Crowley asked when Aziraphale grabbed his hand to bring it to his lips, then held it up for the demon to see.

“Seems to me that I’m going to have to worship all of your body, my dear,” he said with a sly smile.


	6. Moulting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Angels moult when they’re stressed, demons don’t because stress is an everyday occurrence to them. So when Crowley enters a tattered bookshop full of feathers he assumes something rather more celestially violent has happened than Zira worrying about his shop being labelled “unholy” for carrying queer literature. (He may be projecting...)
> 
> Rating: G

It looked like a bloodbath. Like someone had slaughtered a fairly ridiculous amount of birds and distributed their remains liberally over everything in sight. Or rather plucked them and just left the feathers, taking the rest with them, as there was no actual blood in sight. Still, the picture that presented itself made Crowley’s heart race.

They were supposed to be safe now, weren’t they? Left alone by heaven and hell, to their own devices. But when he manifested inside the entrance of Aziraphale’s shop, which was uncharacteristically closed during the late morning, his chest filled with a sinking dread. Something has happened. Something has happened to his angel! After two or three seconds of feeling like his air had been cut off (even though he didn’t actually need to breathe) Crowley darted into the depths of the shop.

“Aziraphale?” he shouted, pushing away the visions of the burning shop, that would forever haunt him. “Angel?”

There was no immediate answer. Crowley opened every door in sight, but he could only find ever more feathers, which his agitation sent flying through the air. Finally he turned to the stairs, which connected the shop to the few rooms above, when he heard a sound. It was merely a whisper.

“Crowley?”

In just a single moment, the knot of fear that had sat in the demon’s chest did not completely unravel, but no longer threatened to choke him. He whipped around, only to catch a glimpse of white in a corner, wedged between the wall and a shelf. His heart jumped.

“Angel… What in hell’s name are you doing there?”

“Brooding…” came the sullen answer.

“Care to do that together with me, somewhere comfortable?”

Aziraphale didn’t immediately answer. Then he nodded. Crowley could’ve miracled them somewhere, but he felt it important to reach out, grasp the angel’s hands and physically pull him out of the corner and into his arms. Aziraphale went where we was directed without resistance, burying his face in Crowley’s shoulder. With his demonic strength, Crowley lifted him up into his arms and carried Aziraphale over to one of his ridiculously fancy divans that stood in the back of the shop. When he sat down, the angel still clung to him, so he didn’t let go either, arranged Aziraphale in his lap.

“What are you brooding about?” he asked.

“I fear you may laugh at me if I tell you.”

“Never,” Crowley said with such certainty that Aziraphale released a noise between a sob and a sigh. “Show me your wings.”

“Oh, no, that won’t do…” Aziraphale fretted.

“Angel…” Crowley said in that particular tone that made it clear he would take no bullshit right now (or ever, for that matter).

Aziraphale sighed and buried his face in Crowley’s clothes before his wings appeared. They looked—to put it mildly—horrible. Patchy, dull, in disarray. Almost a third of the feathers had fallen out, some were in the process as Crowley was looking.

“Are you sick? You can’t get sick, can you? I thought—”

“I’m moulting,” Aziraphale mumbled into Crowley’s shirt. “Angels moult when they’re stressed. Demons don’t?”

“Angel, we’re always stressed. That’s part of being a demon. The day I’m not stressed is the day after I’m dissolved in Holy Water. If every demon reacted like that, hell would be filled to the brim with feathers…” Crowley explained. “But why are you so agitated? I’ve never seen you like this… not even during the Apocalypse.”

“Of course not. You were there during the Apocalypse… I knew you’d think of something.”

Crowley ruffled Aziraphale’s hair affectionately, if a little too rough.

“Spill. What’s going on now?”

“Someone browsed the shop yesterday. They… they had some not so nice words about parts of my collection. Shouted at me, even. I had to… almost forcefully… remove them from the shop.”

Crowley swallowed. “What did they say?”

Aziraphale buried himself deeper, hands digging into Crowley’s back, wings quivering. A few more feathers fell to the floor. Crowley hurt as he saw them fall.

“They said my books were blasphemous. That I… that I’m going against God for carrying queer literature. That… that…” Aziraphale started sobbing.

“Oh, angel…” Crowley sighed, his arms as closely around Aziraphale as he could. 

He, himself, had never cared. Aziraphale cared almost too much. That was what made him… him. But it also hurt the angel, time and time again. No matter if heaven left them alone, Aziraphale would always be a faithful servant. The mere suggestion of him going against God… well, Crowley could very well imagine how Aziraphale’s mind had worked itself into a state overnight.

“First: Next time you worry about anything remotely like that, you call me immediately. I will not have you hurt like that, to the point that your body suffers. Promise me.”

Aziraphale sobbed.

“Promise. Me.”

“… alright.”

“Second: That was some absolute rubbish. There is nothing wrong with queer literature. There is nothing wrong with love and writing about it, no matter what kind of love it is. You are literally made of love. How are you too stupid to see that?”

“He called my shop unholy.”

“Only insofar that you allow a demon to crash here sometimes.”

“Crowley, you are far from unholy.”

Crowley made a strangled noise. “That’s a discussion for another day. Look at me?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and raised his head. Crowley could see the circles under his eyes, the worry in the creases of his forehead. He took off his own sunglasses, then leaned in to kiss the angel as gently as he could. They stared into each other’s eyes until Crowley felt Aziraphale relax at least a fraction.

“We’re pretty queer, aren’t we?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale let out a small laugh. “That would be the kindest word to describe us.”

“If you’re not unholy, and I’m apparently not, why should your books be? Are we wrong?”

“I love you. That could never be wrong.”

“Now tell yourself that a hundred times over while I tend to your wings, you ridiculous angel.”

Aziraphale hiccuped another sob and turned into himself as he felt Crowley gently let his hands glide over his wings, whole feathers sprouting where he touched, restoring the shine and the light.


	7. Dulce de Leche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is a bastard who sins liberally. My own idea for once.
> 
> Rating: E

Aziraphale was a creature of pleasure. Angels weren’t supposed to be. But then again, how boring would the world be if everyone is only ever as they’re supposed to? Aziraphale was still an angel with all privileges and powers, so his abnormal behaviour clearly didn’t let him fall from grace just yet… though he was often stretching the bounds quite liberally, sinning in more ways than one at the same time.

Crowley let both hands glide down Aziraphale’s sides. They came to rest at the angel’s hips, his grip tightening to dig into the soft flesh. Aziraphale moaned at the pressure, hands over his head digging into the pillow as he strained upwards. Crowley grinded against him, bodies flush, his cock buried deeply. He felt Aziraphale clench around him.

“More…” the angel breathed. “Please…more…”

He sounded almost pained. His mouth opened, tongue glistening obscenely as he panted. Crowley shuddered. Here was one: Gluttony. He reached for the small container and dipped his fingers into it. The sticky, milky liquid dripped off his fingers in ribbons as he raised them. Dulce de Leche. Their discovery of the century. Aziraphale went absolutely wild for it. Crowley brought the two covered fingers to the angel’s tongue and hissed when they were sucked into the hot mouth, Aziraphale moaning around them. He snapped his hips forward, driving the air out of him. Aziraphale let out a curse that was muffled by the fingers that were on his tongue.

“Really, Zira?” Crowley huffed. “Language.”

“...uck off,” Aziraphale replied.

“You’re so pretty like this.”

He was. There was no doubt. He was a vision out of Crowley’s wildest fever dreams. Creamy, flushed skin, a sheen of sweat, eyes screwed shut in pleasure, panting with every move. Aziraphale preened under Crowley’s praise. Vanity. And then another: Sloth. Crowley willingly indulged him. Aziraphale didn’t even have to move, just lay there on his back, all spread out for Crowley to enjoy.

“More…”

Ah, yes. How could he have forgotten Greed? Another finger full of sticky caramel found its way into Aziraphale’s mouth, and this time it stayed there while Crowley picked up the pace, fucking into his Angel until he cried out with every push.

Aziraphale spilled between them, Crowley deep inside, mouth full, spit running down his face, biting down so hard on his demon’s fingers that he drew blood. It was the pain that did it for him. Crowley followed him over all too gladly.

Aziraphale was a real bastard of an angel.

Crowley wouldn’t have him any other way.


	8. That Wall Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How that wall scene should’ve gone.
> 
> Rating: E

“I’m a demon! I’m not nice! I’m never nice— Oh?”

Aziraphale blushed in the deepest crimson. The colour reached up to his ears. Crowly had pushed their bodies flush together and he had reacted almost instantly, his cock hard in his trousers between them. He was startled by his own reaction, but didn’t avert his eyes.

“So it’s like that?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale could only nod.

“Why if I’d known that’d take only this to make you aching for me, I’d have shoved you against the wall of the Garden.”

Aziraphale whimpered.

Crowley brought their faces closer together, noses brushing, then moved his mouth to Aziraphale’s neck… and bit down. Hard. His teeth weren’t human. They were sharp like needles, piercing the angel’s skin, blood spilling out, lapped up greedily.

“Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuu—”

Aziraphale could do nothing but cling to Crowley’s body as his knees buckled and he came and came and came… crying, shouting, screaming. He could hear the thirsty slurps of his demon, which only spurred him on. It was wrong to feel as good like this, but he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help it at all. It wasn’t so much the actual bite, but rather the way the Crowley was claiming him as his.

Only his.

“I’m yours,” he breathed as he came down from his high, one hand in Crowley’s hair now as he licked the wound.

Aziraphale pressed one knee up into Crowley crotch and that was all it took. Crowley hissed and coughed and cried, he was so startled, and then he cried out some more and came, just as Aziraphale had done, completely undone in his trousers.

“Angeeeeeeel…” he slurred.

He drew back to see his angel barely leaning against the wall, tears on his face, mouth open, panting. His clothes were absolutely ruined, rumpled, bloodstained, shining wet and crimson. No matter the blue paint stain from earlier, this was worse. He looked like he’d been murdered.

Crowley didn’t know why that turned him on so much and he didn’t exactly want to think about it.

What he did was freeze the human, who had just walked into the corridor, with a motion of his hand. Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed her in his stupor, gazing on Crowley as if he worshipped him.

Crowley let his hands glide through his angel’s hair and over his face, making the curls fluff up gently, the skin dry and clean. Aziraphale chased his fingers as they lay on his lips, kissing them softly, at which Crowley showed an indulgent smile.

The clothes were next, stains disappearing like they had never existed, every layer rightened, moved to be sitting comfortably again. Finally Crowley fussed over his angel’s bowtie until it was just right.

They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment until a police siren ripped them from their stupor.

“Suppose we better move,” Crowley said.

“I don’t want the world to end,” Aziraphale blurted out. “No matter which side wins, even if we don’t pick one, we’ll be separated forever. I… I can’t live without you Crowley. I can’t.”

Crowley swallowed thickly.

I love you too, his eyes said.

“Then let’s find the antichrist,” his mouth said. “For the world.”

Aziraphale smiled at him.

“And for us.”


End file.
